Sunday, March 31, 2013

We’ve all done it, lost our glasses, our cell phone, our car
keys, the remote, a wallet, or sometimes, temporarily, a kid or two. I’ve
noticed that age is a factor in losing things. The older you are the more items
you tend to misplace and misplaced sounds much less drastic than lost as in the ship was lost with all hands. All
you know is that it wasn’t where you thought it was. And if you find it, it
wasn’t really lost was it? Out of sight perhaps or absent without leave, but
surely not…lost.

In my recent case, it was the checkbook. I had the bank
record of where I’d written the last check but that was 20 days ago and when the
man who just finished some tree work for me wanted to be paid, no checkbook. Luckily,
I found another pad of new checks but where on earth was that familiar blue
cover and its precious contents?

The customary location for safekeeping was, of course, barren
of checkbooks. Secondary sites were scrutinized; the top of the dresser, jeans
pockets, jacket pockets, the car I was in when the last check was written (at
least I think that was the vehicle I was in.) You see, the longer you think
about it, the harder you try to remember, the more the mind starts playing evil
little tricks. Where exactly, if anywhere, did you visit after writing that
last check; the grocery, a Wal-Mart, maybe the liquor store? Think! Think!

The search began, cursory at first, after all, it has to be here
somewhere, not far from its regular home base, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it? You pat
pockets, run your hand behind the cushions, look under the couch, question the
Missus, give the evil eye to the cats ( oh, they’re quite capable of knocking
items from shelves and dressers you know), check the magazine rack, the trash
can, the bed, but no.

I go to the web and the online banking site. Whew! No bad
guys have used the account, not yet anyway. I decide to call on my friendly
banker and check my options for lost checkbooks. A very serious looking lady
explained, “Well Sir, you have ten lost checks. I can put a stop on them for $30 a check.”

"WHAT! Three hundred bucks? You’ve got to be …… Surely,
there’s another solution."

“Or, we can cancel the account and set you up with a new
one.”

Hmm. That was an option all right, but not without
consequences. There was auto bill pay and auto deposits to deal with. Geez.

“One other thing we could do is to freeze the account for
ten days. This means no one can use it, not even you without personally talking
to us again.”

I chose door number three and went home with renewed
determination to find the damn checkbook. Since it was late in the day and
happy hour was at hand, I opted to continue the search come sunrise. I would go
through the cars and the house, room by room, inch by inch, searching every
niche and cranny, no matter how unlikely, until I was absolutely positive that
any area larger than 3” by 6” by ¼ “ was devoid of little blue folders.

With sun shining and birds singing to welcome the new day,
I grabbed a flashlight and began my quest. Hoping that I had not yet reached
the early stages of dementia, I reasoned that the car was the last known place
of checkbook occupancy and started there. Besides, it was a smaller area to
search than a whole house.

I backed out of the
garage for better light and access and started in; driver’s side pockets, under
the seat, sun visor, console box, nada. Moved to the passenger side, nothing on
the floor, nothing in back, checked the glove box for the fourth time, and
…hold it! HOLD IT! There, in the back, on edge, vertical against the rear of
the box, now revealed in the glare of the spotlight, a familiar blue cover.The lost (I mean misplaced) was found. Keep
in mind that the Missus and I had reached in that very glove box, removed the
contents, and examined them piece by piece. Not once, not twice, but thrice, yet
always in the semi- darkness of the garage and without a flashlight. With the dark
blue against the black, well, you can easily understand how it happened, right?
Just one of those things. Could happen to anyone. Getting old had nothing to do with it.

That doesn’t mean I’m ruling out the cats as the root of the problem, not yet.